I set my watch and my camera for the new time moments after I get on the plane. Nine hours later becomes my new reality.
I have a pill I must take once every 24 hours. At home I take it at midnight, because consideration of going to bed is a memory prompt for nighttime pills. For travel in Western Europe, it's time is 9 a.m., prompted by after-breakfast pill time.
When you make that long trip from the West Coast to – in this case – Geneva, two days magically become one albeit an exceptionally long one, The evening of arrival day. The evening of arrival day is a little spacey. It’s hard to decide if you’re hungry. Or not. Whether you’re wide awake and fine. Or nodding off while still on your feet. Sardine class isn’t the most comfortable for sleeping and this time I didn’t even bother to get out the inflatable neck collar that keeps you from getting crick-in-the-neck from sleeping sitting up.
Once upon a time I went away to college three time zones away on an airplane. I didn’t get jet-lag, because it hadn’t been invented yet, a two-hop trip by big propeller plane from LA, or maybe Burbank or Ontario, to Midway in Chicago and then onward by smaller aircraft to Vandalia, which is what we called the Dayton airport. Flying was a BIG DEAL. It didn’t happen often. The usual visit home was by Greyhound.
A plane trip pf several hours ... I remember grogginess. Perhaps I travelled on the redeye.
They had jets by the time I went to DC from San Diego to represent my local League of Women Voters at its national convention. We were so jet-lagged. It was a time of excitement and turmoil. An LWV national convention is a wondrous thing and the Star had been the Parliamentarian. It was as if we’d been praising the performance of a rock star.
Jet-lagged? With a three hour time difference? Wimp.
These are probably spacey thoughts. After my long stint across the US, across Canada and the Hudson Bay, across the tip of Greenland, across the Atlantic and the British Isles, into Amsterdam, again through a security screening that made the TSA seem like Mary Poppins (and I always thought the Dutch people were nice!) another short hop on a smaller plane, whose seat room was more ample than the ones on the overseas flight, we arrived in Geneva.
Kathy and I were to meet Other Kathy at our hotel. I don’t want to call Kathy “Old Kathy” because Other Kathy sounds too impersonal and I’d have to call her “New Kathy,” so henceforth they will be Kathy and Kathleen. If any more of our traveling companions is a Kathy on this tour, we’ll deal later.
Perhaps you’ve discerned, these are jet-lag ramblings. When we got into our hotel at about two Friday afternoon, Kathy and I agreed to meet in the lobby at four, and then try to look up Kathleen. I settled in a bit, then discovered my passport had gone missing between the reception desk and my room. It wasn’t at the desk, and Kathy didn’t answer a knock at her door, so I took in an hour’s nap, then went down to meet her at the chosen time.
I went to bed around 9:15 last night, and read a page of Krugman until I couldn’t keep my eyes open any longer.
I thought after I came back to bed after going to the bathroom in the night (and getting terribly lost in the dark – flashlight, that’s one thing I forgot to pack, although I do have the spare batteries) that it was something like 4:30 a.m.
NOT. When I looked at the clock again, it wasn’t that much after 2 a.m. I turned the light on and read. I finished Krugman. Excellent book and I’ll say more about it later.
I started penning this at 3:30. It’s 4:30 now on Saturday morning and I will try to get another couple of hours of sleep.
The passport? That’s not on the topic of jet-lag.
See you when I have internet and wake up.